


Sunshower

by Fox_In_A_Box



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Introspection, Kinda?, Short One Shot, more like existential crisis and fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 04:10:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15922592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_In_A_Box/pseuds/Fox_In_A_Box
Summary: As Contessa pays an unexpected visit to his office, the Number Man finds himself wondering about something he doesn't really like to accept just yet.





	Sunshower

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who has recently finished reading Worm? Guess who got into yet another doomed ship? Yeah. Welp, hope you enjoy!

It was raining outside.  
  


Not on this Earth, but on one of the countless different Earths that existed scattered throughout dimensions. More specifically, on the one whose wooded landscape was currently displayed on the other side of the window.  
  


The Number Man had never been one to enjoy the clichéd dark and stormy nights -he wasn't a poet, to him lightning and rain-heavy clouds were nothing but a mere weather phenomenon, as was snow, sunlight and haze just to name a few- but it did provide a somewhat pleasant distraction. Hands clasped behind his back, he let his gaze wander over the unfamiliar landscape, observing the thick shower of droplets falling through the trees, shifting his focus every time figures and complex operations started to form in his head.  
  


Far from ungrateful, he did enjoy the nearly unlimited possibilities his power had granted him, but like any other type of physical or mental exercise, it became draining in the long run. He always made a point of detaching himself from it, from time to time, letting it fade into the background as he concentrated on something trivial, so that he could draw from it with renewed clarity when he finally decided to go back to work.  
  


A sudden noise broke the silence. He was so focused on ignoring the numbers that floated at the edges of his field of vision that it took him a few precious seconds to register it as a series of hurried footsteps. He blinked, his power kicked back into gear. In the span of a split second it supplied him with all the information he needed to face the unforeseen threat; the distance between the door of his office and the window, the exact number of steps it would take his assailant to be within reach, the assailant's own height judging from the pause between each step. Simultaneously, his right hand reached for the breast pocket of his shirt, fingers clutching tight around a fountain pen. An improvised weapon, but a weapon nonetheless.  
  


He counted five seconds under his breath, backwards, until he reached zero. Then turned around to strike and his wrist was caught in an iron grip.  
  


"Contessa."  
  


The woman didn't look surprised. The crease between her eyebrows spoke of worry more than anything else, even if he couldn't tell the reason for her concern. Was she worried about him? About the impending end of the world? About something completely unrelated? All of them seemed plausible.   
  


He couldn't prevent his brain from noting that, had she been slower to react, the sharp point of the pen would have dug deep into the side of her throat, just above the collar of her pristine white shirt, no doubt severing an artery. Anyone else would have deemed her lucky. The Number Man knew better.  
  


"You're nervous," she remarked. Not a question, an acknowledgement. He didn't bother with denying it.  
  


"Who wouldn't be," the Number Man said. "After the Echidna incident I think we're all allowed to feel a little nervous."  
  


"Fair point," Contessa agreed.  
  


After a moment of hesitation, she released his wrist and watched him return the pen to its place.   
  


"Still," she mused. "It's been a while since the last time you greeted me with an attempt on my life. I'm flattered."  
  


In spite of himself, the Number Man found himself smiling a little. "You caught me off guard. I didn't hear you knocking."  
  


He didn't apologize, there wasn't any real need for that. Not when they had been working together for nearly two decades -reluctant at first, significantly more motivated later- and had grown to recognise each other's moods, strange antics and idiosyncrasies. They implicitly reminded one another that, despite their powers, they were human still. Contessa herself had once admitted that she didn't know if it was a blessing or a curse.  
  


"The Doctor needs you to figure out some data about the most recent Endbringer attacks.   Value of material damage caused by the attacks, in both money and resources, size of destroyed areas and number of casualties. With specific attention to parahuman losses, obviously." Contessa recited. The Doctor had probably made her memorise the lines, as if there was any possibility she could forget something. She had a path for that too, no doubt.  
  


"No sense in making her wait, then."  
  


The Number Man crossed the room and retrieved a sheet of paper from the top drawer of his desk. He set to work, not hurrying but not deliberately slowing down the process either. A disconnected part of his brain captured the tapping of shoes against the tiled floor and informed him that Contessa had shifted, paced for a short while around the room, then changed direction.  
  


He knew she was coming closer well before she settled by his side.  
  


He could feel Contessa's eyes on him as he worked, casting a glance at the figures he was scribbling, then back to him. But she remained silent.  
  


Once he had the main structure sorted out, it was all too easy to fill the gaps, comparing the results again and again with subtle changes until he caught a glimpse of what he was looking for. He didn't linger on the meaning of the numbers dancing in front of his eyes; he had long before ceased to see them as human lives sacrificed in the struggle for a safer future and learned to look at them as nothing but abstractions.   
  


All the while, Contessa never left his side and the Number Man realised he was grateful for it. It was a different kind of peace, standing there with their shoulders touching beneath three or so layers of fabric while his power worked through the last batch of numbers. Different, but pleasant in its own way.  
  


He quickly ran over the entire process a second, then a third time -just in case- before underlining the final results with two rapid strokes of his pen and handing the paper to Contessa.   
  


"I'll bring this over to the Doctor, then," she announced, folding the slip of paper in a half and tucking it in the inner pocket of her jacket. "She'll let you know if she needs something else."  
  


"She definitely will."  
  


Contessa chuckled.   
  


The Number Man leaned back against the edge of his desk.   _Heart rate_ _accelerating,_  said a voice in the back of his head,  _seventy-one beats per minute, now._  
  


He knew what it meant and he hated himself for it. Just a bit.  
  


How ironic. The rational, disillusioned man falling in love with a co-worker.

He wondered if Contessa, unlike him, had seen it coming through some additional benefit of her power. The following, logical step was to ask himself if she hadn't  _caused_ _it_ , perhaps, by fulfilling the instructions the voice of her power whispered into her ear.    
  


So comically absurd if it had been part of one of her path all along, a single step among a thousand little steps to bring her closer to her goal. For a moment he was about to ask her, to make sure that no, there was nothing she could have done to prevent it, it had been accidental, fate toying with them as it toyed with every other human being living on the thousands of possible Earths.   
  


He opened his mouth, then he closed it, letting out a small sigh. When he looked up, he found Contessa lingering on the doorway, one hand resting on the frame and one eyebrow raised in a quizzical expression.  
  


"Can I walk with you?" he blurted out.  
  


The puzzled look disappeared, replaced by one he could have almost described as amused.  
  


"Be my guest," she replied.  
  


As they walked down the empty corridors, the Number Man summoned the courage to put an arm around Contessa's shoulders. She didn't back away.

 


End file.
